Gothmog stepped forward to the incoming skantily armoured skeletons, but what with his binge drinking the night before plus his current inability to drink he wavered a little. With an emphasis on the parenthesis he shouted:
"Come on people, get behind me on this one (please)!"
The party duly pulled up their sleeves, unsheathed their weapons, pulled menacing faces and stood behind their comrade (but not too close).
The first skeleton wielding a rusty sword initiated a purposeful lunge at our Gothmog, who was still pursing his lips thinking of one of those delicious Piña Coladas he could do with right now. They were refreshingly fruity yet laced with rum lovingly drizzled over top of them with a cute little umbrella popped on top to...
The tip of the sword suddenly appeared out of the back of his robe. Empty eyesockets peered quizzically at the shining eyes of Gothmog, just centimeters away. The rest of the skeletons suddenly stopped, confused.
"Oh how embarrasing", said Gothmog, wondering how to explain away his immortal and non-physical state to the other champions that he generally regarded as talking meat (that is, lower-life-forms from an inferior reality). He wasn't from this mortal plane, and found it difficult to articulate the words for others into just how to get back to his dimension without using walking boots, a boat or riding a donkey. They never grasped the concepts of pan-dimensional-corporeal-teleportation. He was also in danger of revealing his biggest secret. He couldn't die. Sachets of tomato ketchup, squeezed with exquisite timing under his arm pit in the midst of a melee, was usually enough to fein a I'm-dead-now-so-pop-me-in-a-VI-altar-and-watch-me-spring-to-life-Huzzah! incident.
Gando, who was suddenly glad he wasn´t standing that close to Gothmog, pointed a dirty stubby finger at the new tear in the back of Gothmog's cloak: "That must smart a bit... Like really hurt, no?"
"You errr, can do that if you're dehydrated... Yes, that's it. Thirsty yet empty. Parched throat but an edamificable stomach. It's all to do with osmosis don't you know." He was not convincing, not least to himself.
The skeletons, magical constructs created by necromancers with a soul purpose to hack at and consequently consume living flesh, had suddenly come to a decision. Eat the rest of them, ignore the wierde one. 'Phew!' thought Gothmog, who nutted (head butted) the skeleton breaking his boney chin, and mayhem ensued.
It's time for Gothmog to act! But what to do?